When Jake Seresin is peer pressured into taking a last minute vacation, he certainly doesn’t expect Bradley Bradshaw to tag along. He also doesn’t expect to discover that his hotel is a hotspot for newlyweds. Nothing, however, could be more unexpected than finding himself on a fake honeymoon with his coworker, who just so happens to be inconveniently attractive.
OR
Bradley convinces Jake to fake a marriage for a fruit platter (and other reasons).
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chapter 1 - love island is a documentary
chapter 2 - bradshaw(s), baby
chapter 3 - some people are immune to good advice
chapter 4 - tequila sunrise is a truth serum
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thank you to everyone who heard me whinge about/rant about/painstakingly explain the plot of fake honeymoon, you know who you are! shout out @mxrcusflint who talked me off a ledge re: substantially reducing my word count (aka. saving my sanity) and @butchbradshaw and @shorelinetides who lived the nightmare/dream with me in the doc 💖 you may all have one fruit basket.
“Can I fucking help you, Seresin?” Rooster hisses, finally turning in his seat to face him. The office on base is quiet but for the sounds of shuffling feet and fingers on keyboards. They’re meant to be writing reports on the mission, but, well. Jake already finished his, so he’s bored, and bothering Rooster is, as always, the gift that keeps on giving. Jake Seresin may be a decorated service member, one of the most talented pilots of his generation and a grown ass man, but he was an annoying twin brother first. So now that he’s got a whole new type of ammunition, he’s absolutely going to be an asshole about it.
Jake looks up at Rooster through his lashes, eyes wide and innocent. “Whatever do you mean, Lieutenant Bradshaw? I’m just sitting here, thinking my private thoughts.” With the toe of his boot resting against Rooster’s ankle, broadcasting every little thing in his head.
Bradshaw wants him to know — or think — that he’s not amused. His eyebrows are arched, his mouth a thin line, but there’s a tiny crinkle in the corners of those brown eyes as he turns back to his work. And he doesn’t make a move to pull his leg away. That’s all the invitation Jake needs.
So Rooster. If you’re not busy. Do you take requests for when you inevitably pull the plug on the poor jukebox and treat us all to a one woman show?
Jake watches one eyebrow lift, even as Rooster’s eyes stay locked on his computer screen. His fingers, stock still on the keyboard, betray him; Jake’s certain he’s not as focused on the report as he’d like to appear.
Because I think you’re holding out on us by sticking to your usual set of the 80s greatest hits. Man of your talents — you’ve gotta have some range. Know anything from this century?
He spies the tiniest upturn in the corner of Rooster’s mouth. If he’d blinked he would have missed it.
I bet you do a killer Britney impression. We could even get you a little outfit like hers in that one video —
“Hangman. I am trying to write my damn report.”
“And on behalf of the navy, I commend you for your efforts. You’re truly a model officer.”
Here, let me help. ‘I, Bradley Bradshaw, darling of naval aviation, did some very ill advised dashing heroics. Then, right as I was about to get my ass handed to me in the aircraft equivalent of a shitbox lemon, there he was: the best, funniest, most talented, handsomest pilot in all of the United States armed f—‘
“Damn, Hangman,” Rooster mutters under his breath. “I had no idea you felt that way about Captain Mitchell. I think he’s a little old for you, but I could put in a good word if you want—“
Jake’s laugh, barely above a whisper, still rings out in the quiet room.
(Tiny snippet of a mutant!au where Rooster can hear thoughts when he’s touching someone, among other things)
Prompt for you: Bradley gets a love letter on his desk and wonders who is it from
Bradley came back to his shared office with Jake to see the other Lieutenant Commander sit in his desk chair, balancing his feet on Bradley's desk, hands folded in his lap and a gleeful smirk on his face. Bradley stopped in his tracks, considering the fact that Hangman looking that smug couldn’t mean anything good for him.
"Why is your ass in my seat, Hangman?"
Bradley sighed and walked around his desk, ready to physically remove the man if necessary. He had just gotten a talking to from Cyclone, which had resulted in him doing overtime today to get his long overdue paperwork filed. He wasn’t in the mood for Hangman's shenanigans.
Instead of responding, Hangman nodded at something on his desk Bradley hadn’t caught sight of between the mountains of paper. Cyclone was right to call him out on it, but he didn’t have to like it.
In between lay an envelope with a red lipstick print addressed to "Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw". Bradley blushed, throwing a glance at Hangman and swiping a hand over his mustache.
"What is this? A prank?"
"Looks like you've got an admirer, Rooster." Hangman put his feet down and made space for Bradley behind the desk, his eyes curious. "Well? Open it."
Bradley ignored him.
"Can I have my seat back?" he asked, or rather demanded. He raised an impatient eyebrow when Hangman didn’t move.
"Come on. I need to know who it is."
"Why? You jealous?"
Bradley sighed again, even more dramatically. He picked the envelope up, a little curious himself.
The lip print looked like a woman's and he wondered what fellow servicewoman's idea of flirting this was. He was usually pretty good at picking up on flirtations; and he hadn’t had a flirtatious encounter in a while. Maybe he had missed some clues.
"Maybe."
When Bradley glanced over, Hangman just smirked. It looked a little strained though.
Interesting! Did Hangman have a crush on someone from base?
That didn’t sound right to Bradley. He had never seen Hangman flirt with anyone seriously, or take someone home from the Hard Deck for that matter. Now that he thought about it, he got even curiouser. Why had he just never thought about who or what Hangman might be into? That box had sure been opened now, though. He would have to ask Nat for some deets; she always knew who was into whom.
Since Hangman didn’t move, Bradley took the second best option and leaned back against his desk. He opened the letter.
A laugh escaped him as he read the note. He held it out of reach when Hangman leaned over to sneak a look at it.
"What does it say?" Hangman huffed.
"None of your business, asshole."
"It's from the lunch lady, isn’t it. I see her sneaking you extra heaps of mashed potatoes all the time."
Bradley smirked and opened his drawer to put the envelope and note inside.
"Betsy does love me," Bradley said.
Hangman glared at him. "So what, you gonna get off your perch for whoever that is from?" Hangman nodded at the now closed drawer. Bradley noticed a weird edge in his voice. He put more stocks in the Hangman Has A Crush idea.
"You seem strangely invested in my love life, Hangman.“
"I just need to know who looked at your ugly mutt and thought, I gotta ride that mustache."
Bradley guffawed and shoved at Hangman to finally free the seat. "Can't see the appeal, huh?"
There was a moment before Hangman waved hin off. "Nah," he said and got up. He sent a last glance at the closed drawer as he made his way back over to his own desk. "Must have a case of really bad taste, though."
_____
The note.
Dear Bradley,
I paid Plato five bucks to put this on your desk to fuck with Hangman.
Yours truly,
Nat 💋
____
Author's note
Bradley is too oblivious to see why Nat would do such a thing and why Hangman might be bothered by a love letter. But don’t worry, she's on the case. These dumb dumbs will get together or so help her goddess. 🙄
a little hangster soulmate ficlet because it popped into my head today
It takes Jake longer than he'd like to admit to notice the burst of ocean blue on his right bicep. In his defense, the first day actually getting in the the air during advance flight training had been intense.
In his defense, it must have happened in the fucking locker room and he wasn't exactly checking himself out in there—he tends to keep his eyes to himself in the locker room, not looking at anything except what's in front of him.
In his defense, he wasn't expecting to meet his fucking soulmate today.
But he did. He must have brushed against him—and it has to be a him because the only time Jake's bicep wasn't covered by his shirt or flight suit was in the lock room after he'd shower.
He studies the mark in the bathroom mirror, it almost looks like the waves rolling off the ocean as he moves his arm. He wonders what color he left on his soulmate. He wonders if his soulmate is standing in his own cramped bathroom somewhere in this same building studying his own mark. He wonders if his soulmate's heart is racing thinking about the implications of his soulmate being a man in a world where the ink on the DADT repeal is still drying.
He wonders who it is.
Honey brown curls and doe eyes, strong shoulders and biting comments, flash through his head before he shakes himself out of it. It's not worth imagining who it could be—who he'd kind of like it to be. That can only lead to disappointment. Instead of thinking about it, he brushes his teeth and walks out of the bathroom.
He lucked out with a decent roommate, Machado's a chill guy, funny and smart, and he doesn't seem to mind Jake's prickly exterior. He's sitting on the uncomfortable couch, a football game on, when Jake leaves the bathroom. Jake declines his offer to join him, suddenly exhausted, and falls asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.
Bradshaw is already sitting in the classroom when Jake walks in the next morning. Jake stops in the doorway, eyes trained on the swell of Bradshaw's biceps under his tight uniform khaki shirt. Almost like he can feel Jake's eye on him, Bradshaw turns to the door, raising an eyebrow at him as if to ask what the fuck Jake is doing just standing there looking at him.
"Mornin'," Jake says, flashing half a smile. He's usually the first one in the room, Bradshaw being here is unexpected.
"Morning," Bradshaw's eyes are on Jake's shoulder, his arm. The mark is covered, Jake had triple checked that his shirt covered it before leaving, but it feels like Bradshaw can see it anyway.
"You're here early," Jake says, walking into the room. "You're must have been with the roosters today."
Bradshaw snorts, but doesn't say anything. His eyes haven't left Jake since he spotted him in the doorway.
Jake makes his way to his usual seat in the front, stealing himself to pass Bradshaw in the second row. He can feel Bradshaw's eyes on him as he approaches. It's stupid and impulsive, but as Jake walks by he shifts, flexing his arm so his sleeve rides up, causing the ocean blue mark to poke out just enough for Bradshaw to see it if he's looking.
There's a sharp intake of breath from Bradshaw and then there are fingers circling Jake's wrist stopping him.
"Seresin," Bradshaw's voice cracks halfway through his name. He sounds so raw.
"Bradshaw," Jake looks down at him and sees it, a sea foam green splotch of color on Bradshaw's left bicep. They must have brushed by each other in the lock room. Jake thinks he might remember it, Bradshaw coming in later than the rest of them, head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
"Is that—is that new?"
"Pretty sure you know the answer to that already, man," Jake's voice isn't loud, but it still feels like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Bradley," Bradshaw—Bradley says. "You should probably call me Bradley."
"Jake," Jake tells him. "Sit up front me with today?"
There's a moment of hesitation. Jake wonders if Bradley is running through all the reasons that a terrible idea. Whatever he's thinking, he must decide the pros outweigh the cons, because he gets up and joins Jake at the front.
"We gonna talk about it?" Bradley asks, fingers tracing along the mark on Jake's arm. If they leaned any closer, their marks would match up.
"Later," Jake says, reaching out to touch Bradley's mark, dropping his hand when he hears voices in the hall. He takes a breath. If he doesn't ask now, he'll lose his nerve. "Dinner, tonight?"
"Dinner," Bradley agrees, knocking their shoulders together. "It's a date."
Jake bites back a grin at Bradley's easy agreement. He's saved from responding by the classroom door opening. He was half expecting Bradshaw to turn him down. Jake knows he's been a bit—well he's been a bit intense during training. Knows he's rubbed some people the wrong way with his persistence and need to be the best. He's well aware that half the class thinks he's an asshole, but he also knows that everyone in this classroom knows he's the best, that no one doubts his abilities in a cockpit. Especially not after taking to the skies for the first time yesterday and seeing him in action.
But here Bradley is, agreeing to dinner with Jake. Looking almost pleased that Jake's his soulmate. Like maybe last night when he was studying his mark maybe he'd thought about Jake's dimples and his eyes, just like Jake had thought about him.
Now isn't the time to think about this though. Now he needs to focus on training. And that's just what he does. When he and Bradley are paired up to practice taking off and landing, Jake feels giddy with it.
He gets to fly a fighter jet. He gets to fly a fighter jet with his fucking soulmate. They can figure the rest out later.
A little gift for @seekstrivefind <3 and because musician!Bradley is one of my favorite headcanons!!!
From the accidentally married AU ~~ some delicious Hangster on this fine Wednesday~~
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“You can play Elton John?!”
Bradley lets himself laugh, glancing over at Jake. He keeps playing the song, but quits singing. “Why’re you so surprised?”
Quite a few things are happening in Jake’s face, like he can’t decide what say.
Bradley turns his attention back to the keys. He’s a little surprised at how well he remembers this one, it’s been years since he played it, but it was always one of his mom’s favorites. He winces as he flubs his way through the start of the bridge, but recovers — he doubts Jake could tell anything was wrong — and it gets easier as he goes, his hands remembering before his mind does. And he loses himself in it, in the warm familiarity of Elton’s chords. On his shoulder, his mom’s hand, resting. On his cheek, her kiss, fleeting. When he draws the song to a slow, lingering end, he looks over at Jake again. “Satisfied?”
“Not even a little,” Jake says. “Play something else. You know any Hank Williams?”
“I’m not your personal jukebox,” Bradley says, but he’s enjoying himself, he’s enjoying the look of shock that Jake’s trying so hard to conceal, so he thinks for a moment, takes a steadying breath, and straightens his spine. Like that, his mind zips into silence, the air plush around his face, and his hands move, opening into the notes he knows so well.
Beneath his hands, the nocturne develops and curves, rising slowly from the belly of the piano. Distantly, he is surprised by how easily some of the notes come to his fingers, the long-resting pieces of himself rising to breathe. The piece builds from within him, builds and dies, builds and rests, builds and lingers, then crashes into itself, a flurry of sound that dies back again. The only moment of disharmony comes when he hits the highest notes in the piece, the cascade of raindrops, and they come out a little sharper than they should — he really needs to get this thing tuned — but he continues playing, ebbing in the flow, reaching, pulling, something in his chest ebbing along with it, opening as the piece yawns and settles, curling into itself. He lets the final note linger into a low hum before slowly easing his hands away from the keys, his foot away from the pedal. Something in him is cold and clear now, precise where it was messy before. He swallows past it, and looks over at Jake.
Jake is staring at him.
A long moment passes before—
“What the hell was that?” Jake says, voice low.
“Chopin,” Bradley says. “One of the nocturnes.” He scratches his arm absently, his ears going hot.
Jake blinks at him. “Fucking what?”
“Chopin,” Bradley says again, a little slower. “Polish guy.”
“No, no.” Jake puts up a hand, as if to stop him. “I mean… you. What the hell… what are you, some kind of savant?”
At that, Bradley smiles. “Aw, Hangman. That was almost a compliment.”
Their first stop is a tiny bakery downtown, where Jake orders four breakfast tacos and doesn’t let Bradley say a word as he pulls out his wallet. They find a small patio table and sit down, but Bradley pulls Jake’s plate away before he can dig in.
“What’s your problem?” Jake asks.
“My Instagram demands photos.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “The only person who cares about your Instagram is Mav, and he doesn’t know how to work the damn thing.”
“Well, sue him for wanting to know how his reconnected godson is doing on his fake-boyfriend Texas escapade.”
“Can you just eat the fucking taco?”
Bradley sighs, and Jake grins as he watches him shove a taco into his mouth.
His grin drops, though, as Bradley lets out an egregiously loud moan.
“Good lord,” Bradley says, mouth still full. Jake swats his arm, his face reddening.
“We’re in public, Bradshaw!”
“And this taco and I are having a private conversation. In my mouth,” he adds, indignantly moaning again.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to leave you on this fucking patio,” Jake whispers loudly, scanning for appalled passerby. Luckily, he finds none. He swipes Bradley’s second taco, though. For good measure.
Bradley pats his mouth with his napkin. “Fine. But when did you start caring about public decency? I once saw you smack Javy’s ass so hard you probably left a five-star.”
“That was in the Hard Deck. Not my Texas hometown.”
“We’re in Austin,” Bradley deadpans. “Not your buttfuck-nowhere backwater Hicksville suburb.”
Jake huffs. “What’s gotten into you?”
Bradley points to the plate Jake stole. “Not my second taco.” Jake rolls his eyes. “I get hangry,” Bradley says with a shrug.
Jake sighs and slides the plate back across the table. Bradley beams and—this time—takes a smaller bite.
